Bright
by PerhapsItRains
Summary: Memories. Sins. Kyries. Confessions. And the finish to it all...
1. Forgive Me

A/N:  First off, this is NOT a drabble.  It is a CHAPTER that was carefully planned and thought out, and if you read it slowly, you will understand it.

Secondly: there is some religious symbolism, etc. in here.  Take it with a grain of salt.  

Thirdly: The rating IS subject to change.  In fact, in one or more chapters, it will be changed from PG-13 to R.  

Disclaimer:  Witch Hunter Robin does not belong to me.  End of story.

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Chapter 1: Forgive Me

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Bright

Bright

Bright

BURN

_Lord have mercy._

Bless me father, for I have sinned.

_Christ have mercy_

It has been one month since my last confession…

_Lord have mercy._

Father, I have sinned…

Perhaps in time they will forget.  

Perhaps the wounds will heal.

Perhaps the blood will pay the debt

Perhaps again I'll feel.

Supposing the world…was to end tomorrow.

Instead of asking,

"What is the point of my existence?"

They will beg:

"Let me exist."

She liked to watch people, he noticed.  She would observe the step of this person; mentally comment on the way this person was slowly meandering down the street, how the next person seemed to be sad, or happy.

He could see it in the way her curious eyes watched, hidden under long dark lashes.  With the tilt of her head he knew that she was happy, with the twisting and fidgeting of her hands he knew she was worried.  He wondered if she, too, could tell what he was thinking.

But no.

Not thinking, was it?  

She was as much a mystery to him as when he had first met her.  No.  He could never see her thoughts, her intentions.  Perhaps, then, it was her feelings.  The emotions that she let through her shroud of mystery.

Perhaps.  He wondered, sometimes, if she did it on purpose.  As if she knew that if she showed she was still human, he would not be afraid.  But he was still cautious.  Not because of her Craft.  

No.  

He was afraid of her for a different reason entirely.

Sometimes he caught himself watching her, and wondered if she could tell.  Perhaps she watched him, as well?  Was she carefully observing his actions, preserving them in her memory, as she seemed to do as she did her people-watching?  

Perhaps.

But then, there are so many perhapses and maybes in life that free will and thought almost seemed a curse.  But she seemed to enjoy watching the maybes turn into happenings.  

Perhaps, that was what people-watching was all about.

Memories are like boxes.  

They are stored away, carefully placed and stacked in neat columns and rows, a vast library of dusty tomes, sealed away in square packages and left.  

Until something kicks them over.  And the boxes burst open, and there were more things inside of them that you knew there were.  

It _overwhelms_.

And memories forgotten come back…and the bad ones are the ones that matter.  The tears, and the _pain_.  

It

Rushes

Back.

_"I remember…"_

The girl aged 6.

_"Today Hope set Sister Magdalena's habit on fire.  The girl was asleep in the chapel, and our Sister shook her to wake her up.  From nowhere, a fire sprang up, and set fire to the good Sister's habit.  She has burns on her ankles but will be all right.  She is currently in the Convent infirmary.  _

_We have consulted Father Juliano on this matter.  The child's Craft has awoken.  As Mother Superior here in __Italy__, I feel I am responsible for any acts she commits under our care.  The Father also says we should now call her Robin.  Why I do not know, but I have not asked.  _

_The child is different from any others I have seen.  She prays often, and does not question anything.  Robin is wise beyond her years, yet still an innocent child.  Perhaps she will remain this way, pure and good.  I can only pray.  She does not ask why she is now Robin, only answers to it happily. For now, there is nothing more I can do but record everything that takes place here concerning out young charge, as father Juliano has instructed._

There was a marker in the Bible she carried with her.  A red silk ribbon.  It did not mark a passage, or a page.  But on it was written words.  So old the ink was faded, but she knew them, and that was the purpose.

"For if the sprinkling of defiled persons with the blood of goats and bulls and with the ashes of a heifer sanctifies for the purification of the flesh, how much more shall the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without blemish to God, purify your conscience from dead works to serve the living God."   
_Hebrews 9:13-14_

She remembered it even later, and

She

Cried.

For her, the sins of flesh were only the beginnings.

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A/N:  That is Chapter one, please review, praise is wonderful, constructive criticism is appreciated.  Also, for any of you who also read Rurouni Kenshin fics on this site, may recognize a couple of my stories, since this is my new pen name.  My OLD one was Rivenstarr.


	2. Nostalgia

A/N:  This is angst.  This is mostly angst.  However, in this chapter I have included a bit of something else.  The way I write, I tend to romanticize angst, because that's how I feel it is, really, if you take a moment to think about it, and to really, actually LOOK.  So enjoy it, because the next chapter is going to be very…different. It is not going to be half as happy.  And yes, I consider this happy.  By my standards, at any rate.

Disclaimer:  Witch Hunter Robin does not belong to me.   

Chapter 2: Nostalgia

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It was strange how he noticed things.  He would ignore the big picture and focus on the flashes of movement, snatches of words.  That, he thought, was why he noticed the small things that people did.  A slight movement or a whispered phrase.

He noticed the way she swept her skirt carefully to one side as he sat down, he noticed the delicate grace she possessed as she walked…

He told himself it was because this was how he noticed things.  This was how he observed.  This meant nothing, that he watched her…

He remembered his thoughts on people-watching, and allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch slightly.  He wasn't sure why it was amusing.  It just was.

It hurts me to speak of it…

The beauty of language often escapes those who speak it.  Only now did she realize how much she missed conversing with the sisters at the convent, listening to the traditional Mass.

Latin was a beautiful language. The ancient words held a power, a feeling of being _connected_.  

She said her daily prayers in Italian.

What is in a name?  

Often it has been repeated that a rose is a rose….

Names are different.  Some might say the meaning defines the person.  Or that the person defines the meaning. But the truth is…

He remembered how she used to say his name, in her soft and quiet voice.  It was almost a whisper, and he would strengthen the walls before replying. Said like that, a name could mean anything….

_…Amon…_

…it's in the way other people say it.  

And then the question that should be asked is completely different.

What is in a person?

Sometimes the most unlikely people are great writers of poetry.

He was unlikely, but he was no writer.

Sometimes.

She liked to keep notes.  Not a diary, but a collection of random thoughts.  On other people.  She liked to watch them, and would think about it all day until  she could write it down.  Maybe, she thought, that was why she was always called scatterbrained.  

Or childish.

She supposed she shouldn't care what people thought, but for some reason whenever they called her that it was…irksome.  Especially those she looked up to.

_Today he almost smiled.  I was watching him, walking ahead of me.  Always ahead.  Always leading the way.  It was ironic, because we were on a Hunt, and it was dark outside. And it was an abandoned warehouse.  It always is.  He was looking at something on the ground, and just for a moment, I saw him almost smile. Perhaps sometime I will try to make him smile, so everyone can see.  I like it when people are happy…_

He once wrote a love letter.  An attempt at subtle romance.  He still had it somewhere.  Once or twice, he had idly thought of throwing it away, but it stayed wherever it was.  Somewhere.  He even knew what it looked like…if he shut his eyes tightly enough he could just make out the crumpled paper, a poorly-written haiku scrawled across the page.  He had never even gotten to give it to her…

Of course, he had known he should never have become attached.  He had learned his lesson well.  He just wasn't sure he liked it.

_But I still wonder why.  I wonder why he isn't happy._

Every person has ideas that spark into their heads, only to be forgotten a moment later because no one bothered to write it down.  That's what margins are for. 

Many a notebook, diary, or journal has been copied and discarded, the main contents carefully written down word for word, the genius of it all exclaimed over time and time again.  If only the copier had paid attention to the scribbles on the backs of pages, in between the lines, smudged and squeezed into the corner of the margins.

Da Vinci got lucky.

Into the very back of her notebook were a few hastily scrawled notes, quite different from the precise and neat penmanship occupying the former pages.  Hardly notes, even, simply words and half-sentences skittering across the page, upside-down and sideways.  

_Soul _

_                                                                        A name is a rose_

_Apologies are a sign of _(smudged)

_                                                                       Remember the vows_

_Falling on doomsday_

_                                                                                                January_

And in the far most corner, so far into the margin as to disappear into the spine of the book:

                                                                                                                                    25

                                                                                                                                  - 15

                                                                                                                               _______

                                                                                                                                    10

Father, forgive me…

These are my sins…

A/N:  Well, slightly shorter than the first chapter, but that is because the next one is more of an action chapter.  Or…more of an angsty chapter at any rate.  The goal of this one was to…well, you folks read the chapter, right? So.  As always, I appreciate praise, constructive criticism, and all that.  10 reviews gets an update.  15.  gets a 2-chapter update.  


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